Exile's Challenge

by Angus Wells

  It was not difficult. The stranger rode slowly—poor horseman that he was—and Taza trailed him at a distance: too far back that Davyd, even did he turn, could recognize him.

  There was an oak wood Tekah had shown Davyd about three days’ ride from the valley. A stream ran through the grove, and grass for the horse was plentiful. It was a serene place, as if the great trees imposed calm on the ground beneath, and he thought it an ideal spot to build his shelter and seek the answers he needed.

  He rode leisurely, deep in thought and only half-aware of the landscape around him. He had known, he supposed, that this decision had awaited him, but put off its contemplation in the sheer exhilaration of living with the People. There was so much to learn, so much to do, and it seemed to him incredible that a former thief from the backstreets of grim, gray Bantar should come to this new land, this new life, as if reborn. He had clutched eagerly at the opportunity, glorying in the new skills he learned from Arcole and Tekah as much as in the lessons Morrhyn taught him, all part of his new life. It had been exciting enough, busy enough, that he had been able to ignore the clear implications inherent in Morrhyn’s teaching. Why else would the wakanisha tutor him so, if not that he follow in Morrhyn’s footsteps?

  And there lay his quandary. Certainly, he wished to learn how to use his dreaming as the wakanishas did; but no less had he longed to become a warrior, to be like Arcole. Now, he knew, the time came when he must grow up and choose his path like a man. Save as yet he could not decide which trail he’d follow, and Morrhyn had told him he could not be both wakanisha and warrior, that he must choose the one or the other.

  He sighed, for a moment idly wondering why life could not be simple, then laughed at himself for such foolishness. Life was what it was, and his was complicated by his gift, which he could not ignore, and so he must act the man and make his decision. The Maker, he trusted, would guide him. He would build his shelter and set fishlines in the stream, snares around the wood. He would lay up a store of food and then fast in search of the answer, and until then there was no point thinking overmuch about it. The dreams would show him what to do.

  Reassured by that resolution, he began to enjoy the journey for its own sake. The prairie, long sere after the winter snows, was once again alive. The grass grew green under a bright, cold sun that shone from a cloud-patterned sky the color of gunmetal. The wind blew strong, rustling his shoulder-length hair, carrying the promise of rain before nightfall. Prairie dogs watched him pass, curious and unafraid, and overhead hawks swooped and circled. Far to the east he could see the shadow line that was the mountains dividing Ket-Ta-Thanne from Salvation. He wondered what went on there, but only vaguely—this was his home now, this wide land of grass and forest and hill, of rivers and ravines; this fine, free place. He ran his fingers over the scar imprinted on his cheek. In Salvation that was a mark of shame, a mark of servitude. Here it was a badge of honor that told the People he had crossed Chakthi’s domain in search of liberty. To the Matawaye, the brand spoke of courage, and Davyd had grown proud of the mark.

  Abruptly, he heeled his horse to a canter, for the sheer joy of it as much as in search of shelter before the rain came. Not so long ago, he thought, such speed had terrified him. Now he gripped the buckskin’s ribs with his thighs and thought nothing of its swift gait. He began to laugh.

  As the sun approached the western horizon, clouds gathered in massy banks of ominous gray, blown toward Davyd by the wind out of the northeast. Lit redly by the setting sun, dark above, they reminded him of the Grannach furnaces. Indeed, like the distant crashing of giant hammers, he heard the rumble of thunder carried on the wind. It was time to halt for the night.

  He found a stand of hickory and walked the horse into the shelter of the tall, shag-barked trees. The wind was strengthening steadily and already the sky grew dark, the thunder drawing closer. He hobbled the horses and left them to forage, then set to constructing a makeshift shelter. There seemed little point in attempting a fire that likely the approaching storm would drown, so he contented himself with the jerky in his pack, squatting beneath a roof of branches and the tarpaulin brought from Salvation. As he finished his meal the storm arrived, and he sat watching lightning stab daggers of jagged brilliance at the ground before moving on like some vast and ethereal many-legged beast stalking the prairie. The thunder dinned awhile longer, like great drumbeats pounding a senseless rhythm on the skin of the sky, and rain drove hard against the trees and the roof of his shelter. Davyd stretched out dry, pleased with his construction, and composed himself for sleep.

  On the open grass, Taza sat huddled and miserable, his chestnut horse pegged that it not panic and run away as the lightning danced and the thunder tolled. Such discomfort did nothing to improve his temper.

  Davyd woke to a morning freshened by the rain. It dripped steadily from the limbs of the hickories, pooling on the ground below, where mist hung ethereal so that the two horses seemed to move on a drifting, insubstantial gray mere. The sun was only a little way up, a hazy disk against the brightening sky that promised a warm day. Cold yet, though, as he rubbed the animal dry and washed in the dew that bathed the grass. Then he ate more jerky, packed his gear, and rode on.

  The storm had obscured Davyd’s tracks, but Taza guessed he’d likely taken shelter in the wood, and knew it when he found the makeshift wickiup. Then the aftermath of the deluge favored him: the ground was soft and held the hoofprints preserved for him to follow. He trailed out of the hickory stand and rode onto the open grass.

  Davyd reached the oak wood on the third day with a little daylight still in hand. The hurst was deep and wide, saplings thrusting up along the edge as if the timber sought to spread, contesting with the prairie’s grass. He followed the stream to the center, where the oldest trees stood massy, their vast branches spreading a sheltering canopy overhead, the lowering sun flinging long shadows across the ground. Squirrels chattered at his approach and birds trilled an alarm, browsing rabbits scattering as he halted and looked around.

  There was a solemnity to the grove that suited his purpose and he dismounted, stripping the horse and rubbing it down, setting hobbles on its fetlock before seeing to his own needs. He saw trout in the stream and baited fishlines, then set out his snares. This night, he thought, he’d eat well, and tomorrow construct a proper shelter and begin the fasting that would help induce the dream state he sought. He gathered wood for a fire and set up a lean-to against the trunk of a giant oak. Then he lit his fire and bathed in the stream, and as dusk fell, swiftened here by the overhang of budding branches, he found two rabbits caught in his traps. He skinned them, and spitted the carcasses over the fire as he checked his fishlines. Already three trout were hooked and he cleaned them and set them aside as the clearing filled with the savory odor of the roasting meat.

  He ate both rabbits and, his belly pleasantly full, settled down to sleep.

  He woke in the midpart of the night from a curious dream of watching eyes. Almost, he felt afraid, for the dream hinted at possible danger and he wondered if some predator stalked the wood—a lion, perhaps, or a wolverine. The moon was young yet, but stars lit the clearing with a pale light that revealed the horse sleeping peacefully. The banked fire glowed red and he could neither see or hear any animal or other sign of danger. He listened awhile, hand on his bow, an arrow loose on the string, and still heard nothing. Then a raccoon ambled across the clearing, studied him a moment, and hurried on. Davyd went back to sleep.

  Taza thought it would be easy to slay the stranger. Clearly, he thought himself safe, and for all his vaunted prowess as a Dreamer he seemed unaware he was followed and watched as he slept. Taza thought that he could put at least three arrows in him before he woke properly, or even creep up and slit his throat, smash a hatchet against his skull. But he hesitated at that extreme, thinking that Morrhyn or Kahteney would surely find him out and he then face condemnation as a murderer. Better, he decided, to continue watching. He was confident now that Davyd sought the Maker�
��s guidance on his future, and perhaps he would decide against continuing as Morrhyn’s pupil. In that case, Kahteney must surely accept Taza. If not … The young Lakanti was not certain; he would wait for now and decide his course later. He crept silently away from the clearing, back to his horse, which he mounted and rode to the farther side of the wood.

  Morning dawned clear, the oaks loud with birdsong, the wind a caress whispering through the branches that filtered the early sun in dancing patterns over the grass and the stream. Davyd rose and bathed, set the trout to smoking and, after checking his horse, began to gather the makings of a wickiup. He cut saplings that he drove into the earth, tying them off at the apex to form a small, inverted bowl shape. Then he wove younger shoots between the uprights and plastered the entire structure with mud dug from the stream’s bank. As it dried to a hard shell, he dug a small fire pit and set stones to heating. The work took him the better part of the day before he was satisfied the wickiup was built as Morrhyn had instructed him, and his stomach protested its lack of filling. He ignored that discomfort and strung the cured trout from a branch, then filled his waterskin and set it inside the wickiup. He made obeisance to the Maker, asking that his questions be answered, and stripped naked before retreating into the shelter, covering the entrance with his tarpaulin. The stones were heated now and he spilled water over them, filling the wickiup with steam, then soaked thick chunks of moss and dropped them over the glowing fire. More steam billowed, fragrant, and Davyd lay down, endeavoring to drive all extraneous thoughts from his mind, seeking that oneiric void that was the doorway to communion.

  Taza set up a store of food—rabbits and squirrels, some trout—that he be free to observe Davyd, and made his stealthy way back through the wood.

  The stranger was building a sweat lodge—sure confirmation of Taza’s beliefs—and the Lakanti watched from the shadows as he completed the structure and crawled inside. An idea took shape and Taza smiled to himself, then circled the clearing to approach downwind of the horses. They’d likely not give notice of his presence, for his scent should be familiar to them, but still he’d not chance revealing himself to Davyd; at least, not yet. He crept to the big oak and cut the strings holding the trout and then, suppressing laughter, crept away with his stolen booty.

  It was a small gesture, and likely Davyd would assume a raccoon or some other scavenger had taken the fish, but still he’d not fill his belly when he emerged from the wickiup. Pleased with himself, Taza slunk away to his own camp.

  Time held no meaning inside the sweat lodge. No light penetrated the mud-chinked walls and the banked fire gave off only a faint glow through the billowing steam. Sound was dulled, and as hunger took hold what Davyd mostly heard was the pulsing of his own blood, the steady beat of his heart. He slept, and woke only to stoke the fire and add more soaked moss before drifting again into the limbo that was neither full wakefulness or true sleep.

  And he began to dream.…

  He stood on a mountaintop that was clad in snow, pristine under a sky of pure azure, the sun a blinding disk immediately above him. Cloud wreathed the flanks, but through the great white banks he could somehow see Ket-Ta-Thanne to the west and Salvation to the east. He turned and Morrhyn and Arcole stood before him, neither speaking, only watching him with wondering eyes.…

  And then he was astride the buckskin horse and knew that his hair was tied in the braids and paint was on his face. A round shield of hardened buffalo hide was strapped to his left forearm and he held a nocked bow in his right hand, and knew he rode to war.…

  And then his hair was loose and he sat within a lodge preparing the pahé root, his mind filled with a terrible dread, aware that awful danger came against the People, but not from where, or who the enemy might be.…

  And then Taza’s face filled his vision, laughing.…

  And he saw a great army marching out of Salvation, bluecoats and red, with muskets and cannon, and he stood before the column with arms upraised and shouted that the Militiamen must fight for right, not conquest.…

  And then another army, Matawaye warriors he knew must be Chakthi’s Tachyn riding horses that were dwarfed by the dread beasts the others rode, which seemed a commingling of creatures, as if lions and lizards merged, their riders clad all in glittering rainbow armor, with skulls strung from their saddles. And Taza laughed at him, and he held a musket and his hair was unbound and he fought.…

  The images came swift, imposed on one another, mingling and interweaving until they became a vast conflagration that swept over the plains of Ket-Ta-Thanne and Salvation, and the mountains between shattered and melted. And he stood inside the flames and raised his arms and shouted and rain fell, dousing the fires, and grass grew again and trees, and Morrhyn smiled at him, and Arcole, and a soldier in a blue coat whose face seemed somehow familiar. And soldiers walked with branded folk and Matawaye, all smiling.…

  And then an unknown face, sallow and cruel, its owner pointing an accusatory finger, beckoning him to a chain-hung pole around which was piled brushwood. And he was drawn to the pole by a force he could not resist, only stand helpless as the manacles were locked about his wrists and ankles and a torch set to the pyre so that flames rose about his feet and smoke clogged his nostrils and he screamed as the pain began.…

  Davyd woke awash with sweat, starting up from the bare earth of the wickiup with a choking cry. Almost, he flung aside the tarpaulin to crawl outside, where the air was clean and not filled with the dream memory of his scorching flesh. But he had no answer yet—as yet he was unsure what the dreams meant, they seemed all confusion and chaos—and so he forced his racing heart to calm and voiced a prayer, and lay back. He was light-headed, and his belly felt like a vacuum, no longer hungry—beyond that—but drawing him inward, into himself, where the answer would be found.…

  He saw the armies clash, the soldiers of Evander fighting the People; the weirdlings he knew must be the Breakers fighting the Evanderans, fighting the People; Matawaye fighting Matawaye: chaos. And then the imposition of a kind of order that, even dreaming, unconscious, he knew came from a source beyond himself. The images blurred and realigned, the struggling factions parting and then joining in alliance, Matawaye and Militiamen siding together against the might of the Breakers and the renegade Tachyn, and he watching as if from on high, anxious to know the outcome.…

  Which was not vouchsafed him, for the images faded behind a screen of flame that filled up all the world, and he was running from the conflagration, seeking a safe place he knew existed, but not where or how he should reach it. And suddenly he was pursued: Taza chased him, laughing, and the sallow-faced Evanderan, who held chains and a burning brand, and Matawaye whose faces he did not know, and Breakers in their glittering armor astride their horrid beasts. And he could only run.…

  Taza listened to the sounds Davyd made and wondered what the stranger dreamed. Were his shouts a guide, it was nothing pleasant, and that pleased the young Lakanti. Perhaps Davyd would decide the life of a Dreamer was not for him; but Taza doubted that would be, and would sooner not leave that decision to chance, but tip the scales in what he thought must be his favor.

  He would not harm Davyd—that should be too risky—but there were other ways to remove the upstart. He thought of the trout he’d stolen and grinned, another idea taking shape. He looked at the two horses grazing peacefully in the noonday sun and made his decision.

  Davyd lay panting on the bank of a crystal stream. He could run no farther and knew he must either perish here or find the answer to … He was not sure what. Behind him the fire raged, coursing ever closer; across the stream the grass grew green and safe. He knew that if he waded the shallow water he should be safe, that the fire must halt at that barrier and leave him unscathed. He rose and looked back, and inside the flames he saw Flysse and Arcole, Morrhyn, Rannach and Arrhyna, Lhyn, Colun and Marjia, and knew that if he crossed, they all must perish. He cried out to the Maker, pleading for answers, and felt the heat sear him, his eyes wateri
ng, his mouth and nostrils sour with smoke. He fell gasping onto his hands and knees, head hanging over the water … and saw his face reflected, painted for war even though his hair hung unbound.

  Abruptly, a great calm settled on him and he became aware he held things in his hands. He raised his hands, and in his right he saw that he held a hatchet, and in his left pahé root. Not knowing what he did, he brought his hands together, clasping them as if in prayer, and the root and the hatchet blended and became one: a tomahawk fashioned of pahé.…

  Davyd opened his eyes. His limbs felt oddly light, unweighted, and when he tried to rise he began to shake and fell back, his head spinning. He groaned, smiling because he had his answer now, and closed his eyes and slept, and this time he did not dream.

  He woke again and rolled onto his side. The fire was dead and the wickiup chilly. He was very weak. Laboriously, he crawled to the waterskin and raised it to his lips. It weighed heavy and there was not much water in it, but he drank what there was and struggled to the opening. He pushed the tarpaulin aside and looked out onto a clearing washed by the moon’s pale light. He saw an owl watching him from the branch of the oak tree, the great round eyes solemn, and wondered if the bird omened wisdom or death. He took a deep breath and rose to his feet, staggering as the world spun wildly round. The owl took flight, swooping low and ghostly across the clearing, and when Davyd could see clearly again, it was gone. He felt no hunger, only an imponderable emptiness, as if a void existed where his belly had been. He wondered how long he had lain inside the sweat lodge, and knew that he must eat to regain his strength. He felt too weak to mount his buckskin.

  On legs that felt both weightless and leaden, he went to where the trout were hung. Thought of the fishes filled his mouth with saliva, and when he reached the branch and saw they were not there, he groaned. He was mistaken, he told himself: light-headed, he became disorientated and had come to the wrong branch. Slowly, he circumnavigated the great tree, and still the fish were not there. He frowned, examining the branches until he found the cords that had held the fish and saw them cut.